


The Grey Demon and the Gold Castle

by katsumeragi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Based on Halloween skins, Character Death, Demon Hanzo Shimada, Halloween, Hand Jobs, Heavy Petting, Hunter Jesse McCree, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Meiji Restoration Era, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Sorta kinda implied Genji/Widowmaker, Vampire Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumeragi/pseuds/katsumeragi
Summary: Jesse McCree continues his hunt for a dangerous monster in Japan where fate brings him together with an unusual guide. [Hunter!McCree and Demon!Hanzo AU set in the 1890s] [McCree wanting to kick Reyes' ass like usual]





	

A group of geisha in training giggled and coyly whispered amongst themselves while staring at the black-clad foreigner they pass on their way to the alley of teahouses they work in. He’s so rugged and mysterious, he must be from America, one of them said. Do you think he’d be richer than the British that visit, another asked. One of the girls felt her hairpiece slipping from her hair and stopped to adjust it, her eyes still on the man in black. She couldn’t help but eavesdrop his conversation with a stall owner, wondering if he’s from abroad if he knows their language. She wondered if, with his unkempt facial hair and brooding silhouette, if their words roll off his tongue like warm sake.

He had a _dorayaki_ in his hand and with exasperation shouts “For the last got-danged time, _pancake ikura deska_?! Flapjack! How much!”

The girl, disappointed in the yankee, ran in her clunky wooden sandals to catch up with her friends.

Jesse McCree on the other hand was fed up with trying to figure out what the small cake in his hand was actually called. The man who gave him the lead on his target’s location, the German captain built like a brick shithouse, gave him a small phrase book, but none of them had the word for “squishy pancake sandwich.” He throws a few of their hollow yen coins onto one of the merchant’s crates, figuring he probably is overpaying anyway.

He took in the scenery some more as he scarfed down the first thing he’d eaten since stepping on Japanese soil. Kyoto at night reminded him a lot of western settlements in the States; the smells of ash from dead fires, tobacco, floral notes from any woman passing by wafted through the dimly lit alleys with a full sky of stars above him. He wished he had more time to burn in a city so filled with life, but he knew he had a mission to complete. Well, more like a promise to keep.

McCree finally saw the flag with a red sparrow on it, the Kotori pub the good captain Reinhardt pointed him towards for information. He'd find an informant, someone who caught wind of his target.

The pub was dimly lit but warm, filled with laughter and garbled Japanese. He felt a hundred eyes piercing him, a man who stuck out for more than his tanned skin and rough exterior. Nothing good ever came from a man in all black, from his high-collared shirt to the leather of his boots, or the wide-brimmed, unwashed hat on his head. He’d shoot himself down in broad daylight if he didn’t know better.

He saw a balding man in the corner of the pub, refilling sake bottles, and immediately approached him.

“Iemitsu?”

The barkeep turned to face him, a younger man with an unfortunate hairline. At first he looked confused but his eyes widened once he realized it was his name being said with McCree’s poor accent.

“Yes! Yes! You must be Eichenwalde Reinhardt’s friend, yes?” McCree winced at the man’s pronunciation but knew he should be grateful for any moment he didn’t have to attempt Japanese.

“Uh, yeah, sure, listen, I gotta get movin’ to my destination soon so when’re we headin’ out?”

“No, no, I cannot go with you. I need to finish work.” Out of all his guides, he’d never been shut down for a few yen for polishing glasses. “There is someone who can take you, is very knowledgeable on the back roads. Very dangerous. Barely man. You’ll have to travel to the woods, on eastern side of the city to find him.”

“What am I lookin’ for in there, a shack? Watchpoint?”

“Very sorry sir, I do not know.” McCree was quickly dismissed; he apparently was less interesting than a table full of farmers motioning for their refills. Maybe he had a looser understanding of manners in these parts, he thought. He pocketed a filled bottle of sake for the road and exited.

Back outside, he weaved through the alleys of Kyoto, watching the crowds thin out and the lights dim. He passed rows of thin paper houses with beef stew and nightblooms wafting in the air. He walked until not a single home or stall lined the street, where only neatly  spaced willows and deciduous trees lined his path, like shrouded ghosts and contorted monsters.

Like a portal to the underworld itself, the forest was right across an abandoned bridge with chipped red paint. The river under the bridge was smooth, free of rocks, and still as though time had stopped. No moonlight passed through the thick foliage; not even a single late firefly glowed through. It didn’t feel right, deep down, to just cross without precautions. What sort of moron wouldn’t pack talismans or an old-fashioned remedy of holy water? Who packs more cigarillos than crossbow bolts? Jesse McCree, that was who, unfortunately, he thought.

A gust of wind flew down the tunnel. The trees behind him shook with fervor and McCree drew his crossbow, only to find nothing but falling maple leaves. Why didn’t he pack candles?

“ _Yameru._ ”

McCree faces forward again and is met with an arrow pointing directly at his forehead, a drawn bow, and a very agitated looking man attached to it all. His hair was pulled back in a neat tail, neater than his well-shaved face. His shroud colored robes were off-kilter, but in such a purposeful way to show the tattoos that covered his left half. It was awfully peculiar, how his skin didn’t shine in the moonlight but blended in with the wild behind him. He was a few feet too far to see the color of the man’s eyes, but had a feeling the ethereal white lights were the closest to an answer he was going to get. He seemed so out of place compared to the villagers he saw walking the streets of Kyoto, so unfastened and feral. This felt like a trap. The Order couldn’t have given him information this wrong.

Trying to make the best of the situation before getting shot in the head, McCree lowered his crossbow and pulled the small leather notebook from his trenchcoat pocket. Squinting, he  said “Uh, _haji,_ _me_ , got dangit moon, can’t see shit, _hajime_ -”

“What is a damned yankee like how doing near these woods?” the archer barked in perfect English.

“Hey, you listen here! I ain’t from that, you know what it ain’t important.” McCree put the notebook back in his jacket. “The fella in town told me to find you for a way to travel to some castle outside Nagoya. Got a job I need to finish there.”

The stranger surveyed him, his neck slightly moving up and down while his bow remained taut. “What is this business?”

“I got a man to kill as soon as I soon as I find him.”

“From the way you are equipped, you are not searching for a man.”

“Well ain’t you just the king of observations, was the black getup a little too much?” Whatever this man was, he couldn’t blame him for feeling uneasy. McCree put his weapon back in his holster, hoping for the best. “He might be closer to monster about now.”

“Is that so, yankee.”

“Maybe you ain't a bloodsucker like my target, but you've got the smell of death on you.”

The archer sighed, retracted his bow and looked off the side of the bridge to the still river and haunting willow trees.

“I promise you I am not all demon.”

“Yeah well I can't risk you bein’ a smartass and tellin’ me you're a ‘yo-kai’ before you rip my insides out.” His southern drawl puts emphasis on the “yo” in “yokai,” and somehow put the archer even more on edge.

“The aura you sense is from a curse placed on me, long ago.”

“C’mon now, we don't need to beat around the bush here.” His hand was twitching. He’d waste his bolts if necessary. “Alright, I'll bite. Who'd you tick off?”

“A _jorogumo_. I am not sure if you are familiar with th-”

“The ‘whore spider,’ I'm aware.” McCree had to hand it to the man, surviving whatever that eight-legged seductress spat at him was impressive. Unconventional, sure, but there was a good reason the Order pointed him in this man’s direction. “Look, I’m sure you ain’t gonna bite me, you seem to be a man with some sense in him. It’ll pay well, promise.”

Resigned, the stranger sheathed his bow behind his back and stuck his unused arrow in his bundle. He walked towards McCree, who despite his smooth talk, felt shivers on the back of his neck with each approaching step. The man’s skin was the grey of wilted tree trunks and campfire ash with sanguine swirls of a demon tattooed on his chest. He walked with hard scrapes against the bridge on wooden legs painted to match his skin. He was shorter than McCree by a few inches but made up for it in his presence.

He barely bowed, the sort of bow you gave to a neighbor you weren’t fond of. “Shimada Hanzo. It will take us three to four days on foot, if the weather permits it.”

McCree stuck out his hand as enthusiastically as he could. “Jesse McCree, part of OMEN’s finest!”

Hanzo stared at his hand as if it had insulted him. McCree withdrew his handshake. “Order of Monster Education and Neutralisation? Ah hell, you don’t really care.”

Hanzo turns on one of his prosthetics and walked back across the bridge. “Come. We will travel through this forest first.”

“Seems a little...dangerous for this time of night, you think?”

“Precisely. Shelter from weather and bandits. Less distractions from our trip, and your American money in my pockets faster.”

“Is that the only reason you're helping me, Shimada-san?”

Hanzo turns slightly to express his annoyance at McCree’s harsh use of the suffix.“No, McCree, I was charmed by your intellect and personality.”

* * *

 

The archer and hunter walked in silence. The crunching of dead grass underneath McCree’s boots grated on his nerves and only heightened the tension in his shoulders. Who made the decision to enlist the very thing he fought for a living as his tour guide? He found himself wishing for any of the other hosts on his journey, even the brat in South America who, although the sweetest kid he ever met, couldn't tell north from south, and couldn’t communicate it well either. At least he was a directionally challenged _human._

He followed closely behind Hanzo, irked, watching his short ponytail sway with each step. It was so well-kept by a thin red sash. His state of being didn’t add up. Someone who fell into the web of a spider demon didn’t stay so well-groomed and educated. He’d be sleeping with one eye open for the next few days, he predicted.

“Who is this target of yours, if it is appropriate to ask?”

McCree snapped out of his spiteful haze and processed the question.Hanzo turned his head to the side to make sure the hunter was still on the move through the thicket.

“Guy by the name of Gabriel Reyes. He used to be an OMEN hunter himself, had a lot of kills under his belt. Sure, he thought the sun came up every mornin’ just to hear his ass crow, but he always got the job done.” Hanzo looked puzzled by the expression, mouthing “the sun?” “Sorry. He thought real big of himself. He could be the meanest sonuvabitch or the happiest sonuvabitch north of the border.”

“You knew him well?”

“Funny story, he might’ve been my mentor for a while. But he got in over his head once, and then it all went to shit.”

“What would cause a man from your country to seize an abandoned castle in Japan?”

“I ain't got the slightest clue. Maybe he jus’ wanted to settle down for a while. A few hunters from Europe think he's got his greasy hands on an artifact or somethin’. I just hope,” He trailed off, hands in his pockets, running his thumb over a string of rosary beads.

“You hope?”

“I just hope he dies quietly.”

* * *

 

The next day, McCree’s calves burned after two hours of scaling the lush mountain range, which would have been bearable if they weren’t on their sixth hour. He longed for when he was at the start of his journey, traversing a mountain range near Sinaloa as rode for days on the oldest and foulest-smelling donkey for two days, or when in Eichenwald where he was accompanied by Captain Reinhardt in a gloomy horse-drawn carriage. At this point he wasn’t picky, and would probably take a mountain goat over more walking. They climbed in quiet, Hanzo concentrating on his sense of direction and McCree panting, occasionally fanning himself with his hat.

Hanzo didn’t waste away in sunlight; like an out-of-place apparition he moved effortlessly up the slope. McCree reasoned with himself that it was okay that he looked out of shape at that moment. Comparing himself to the undead didn’t count.

“MInd if we take breather there?” the hunter asked. Before Hanzo nodded yes he slouched on a nearby tree and fumbled for the small canteen he fastened close to his crossbow. The only blessing on this trek was his water was still as cool as the flux of autumn breeze they walked against. “I thought you said this was the easy way up!”

“It _is_ the easiest way up the mountain, you fool” Hanzo replied. “We are almost at the peak. Then your sad, unhealthy cowboy body won’t be panting like a wolf pup every second.”

“Y’know I’m gettin’ real tired of your smart mouth.”

Hanzo swiftly raised his head. His ears twitched like a predator anticipating his next meal. “Quiet, for a moment.”

“No, _you_ quiet! I’m tryin’ to-”

Hanzo darted to him, his tattooed arm quickly pinning him against the tree. He sternly looked into McCree’s eyes and bore his teeth, square and slanted like a broken fence with impressive canines for someone with a human mouth. McCree dropped his canteen, spilling water in the dirt below. He was convinced he was finished, yet was too mesmerized by the archer’s proximity. “We are not alone.”

McCree relaxed himself and spoke in a hushed tone. “Okay, fine, shit, next time don’t scare the daylights outta me!” Hanzo sneaked ahead, still in visible range, and peered out, carefully. He hurried with soft steps back to McCree. “What’s out there?”

“Bandits. Five men, traveling on foot. Two with swords, one with a bow, two with concealed weapons.”

“Hell, good lookin’ out there. So how’re we gettin’ around ‘em?”

“What makes you think getting around is an option?”

“Whoa, settle down there. I’m only lookin’ to take out one man while I’m here. This ain’t necessary.”

McCree heard a jumble of syllables shouted further up the mountain.

“We do not have any choice, McCree.”

“Ah hell,” he said exasperated, pulling his crossbow out and moving with caution. Hanzo was already ahead of him with his bow loaded and the strong pulled back. In daylight its neck glistened with lapis-colored dragons intertwined on dark black wood, with white accents and golden whiskers. It was alarmingly regal and matched Hanzo’s powerful stance, with his arms flexed, eyes narrowed, and legs planted firmly in position. Once at the edge of the clearing McCree got a good look of the camp for himself. The men were spread in every direction to find the source of their noises, one with bloodstained hakama and throwing knives in his hand dangerously close to them.

“I will eliminate the archer. Shoot the man closest to us,” Hanzo commanded. McCree didn’t dare ask what to do if he missed. The whirring of Hanzo’s firing deafened him, as he followed the shot to dead center of the forehead. He fell backwards with his legs kicking in the air and the arrow lodged into his skull like an ogre’s horn. It was one of the most flawless kills McCree had ever seen in his _life_ , even in Reyes’ presence.

Who the hell _was_ Hanzo?

Snapping back into reality amidst the clamor and confusion McCree aimed his crossbow at the _kunai_ wielder and shot him straight through the heart. He winced at the bandit’s pained shriek as he fell to the ground, blood bubbling from his mouth. With two men down, the other three bandits charged in their direction with blades furiously swinging. “Split up,” McCree ordered. Hanzo nodded and they ran separate ways, McCree aiming at the largest bandit, a stocky man with a half-opened shirt and a sword as thick as a meat cleaver. In a hurry he fired a bolt with an unsteady hold and missed, cursing under his breath. He didn’t have enough bolts on him to get cocky. He threw his pack to the ground and steadied his aim with both hands, looked down the sight and fired straight into the left eye socket. His stomach turned. This wasn’t supposed to be who he was, anymore.

The other sword-wielding bandit peeled to his direction and charged at him like a lanky bull with a matador in sight. McCree reloaded his crossbow, dropping the first bolt, cursing, dropping the second, cursing louder, but the third one clicked into place and he shot the man in the chest. He skidded out, so close to the hunter he toppled him over and McCree fell back. He stared into the sun in bewilderment as he found himself with a lap full of dead bandit.

A loud _crack_ erupted on the other side of the camp. Gunfire, a noise he knew well. McCree rolled the dead man off him and rushed to his feet. “Shimada!”

“I am alright!” He emerged from the wildwood with the gunslinging bandit’s body in tow. The gun was now in his own hands along with a few stray bullets, flint, and twine. “Grab what you can from them. We must leave in case they have backup.”

The hunter rummaged through their belongings but nothing useful. An empty gourd for sake, stones and sheaths for their weapons, and a high-value sack of gold coins. He couldn’t bring himself to pilfer from it. From the corner of his eye he saw Hanzo pull his arrow out of the rival archer’s head while stepping on the man’s neck for leverage. It went back in his quiver with a few new ones.

McCree sighed in relief at the lack of damage done, until he noticed the black liquid spewing out of Hanzo’s arm. He yelped, and Hanzo looked at him inquisitively. “Jesus, the hell’s runnin’ through your veins?”

He hadn’t even noticed until he looked down as well. “Her poison.”

“Well don't it hurt to walk around spittin’ your innards like a damn fountain?”

“Not at all. The dead cannot feel. It was merely a graze from that gunshot.”

“Damn it, hold on. Quit moving.” McCree took his pack off his shoulder and set it on the ground. He pulled a small leather pouch with tinctures, needles, and bandages tucked inside. He unrolled a bundle of gauze, tearing with his teeth, and tied it soundly around Hanzo’s bicep with a neat bow. “There. We gotta find some water to clean that up too. Damn, that’s just screwed up.”

“I don't know, I thought it was quite funny.”

McCree scoffed, pulling a cigarillo and a matchbook from his pocket. He had seen his fair share of gore but the other man's tranquility was unsettling. “You site have a strange sense of humor then.”

Hanzo looked very satisfied with himself. “Just because I have wooden sticks for legs does not mean there is a wooden stick up my ass.”

McCree stopped in his tracks, stifling at first, but laughed with a deep rumble, unable to control himself at the thought. He slapped Hanzo’s shoulder like that of a friend he invited for a round of poker at a whorehouse. Hanzo immediately turned and smacked his hand away.

“The hell?!” McCree asked at the sudden hostility.

Hanzo rubbed the area of skin contact cautiously. He surprised even himself, guessed McCree, by the way his eyebrows were arched. For a man without true eyes, he was still fairly expressive.

“Forgive me,” Hanzo said “it has been years since someone has done that sort of thing.”

“What, smack the living hell outta ya?”

“Human contact, in general. I apologize, I know it was in jest.” It made sense, McCree thought. Without a need to eat or sleep, combined with looking like the living dead, he probably didn’t have a lot of friends around him. He was the closest one could get to becoming a ghost. “It was not too cold?”

“Hm?”

“You touched my skin yet didn’t comment on how cold it was. It is hard to think of you not detailing every observation out loud.”

“Very funny, Cupid. ‘Sides, wasn’t the right hand for that.”

“A prosthetic?”

“Yep! Not the best, but still functional, ain’t my shootin’ hand so it’ll do,” he said while tilting his arm side to side and up to down, letting his wrist turn and fingers clench and fall. He gently motions his hand to Hanzo’s legs. “With all the cash I’ll be giving you, I reckon you could use a good new pair of legs.”

“Find me a doctor that would work on a dead man and I would pay for it myself.”

“Then how did you even get those damn tree stumps.”

“I stole them."  
“From the dead or from the living?”

Hanzo refused to answer.

* * *

 

The second day came to a close and the two men set up a fire near a riverbed. To Mcree it was a great novelty (“Holy hell, I can catch myself a decent dinner like I was back on the Rio Grande!”) while Hanzo leaned against a boulder and began sharpening arrows. He observed McCree’s impromptu spearfishing, a downright foolish sight of the hunter rolling up his slacks, snapping tree branches in half and almost falling face first into the water more than once. Minutes later he was victorious and returned with a pond loach barely bigger than his hand and a small damp cloth. “For your arm,” he said and Hanzo looked surprised he even remembered his wound. He sat on the rock opposite the archer and began roasting his pathetic catch.

They sat in each other’s silent company, save for the crackling of the fire. McCree rotated the fish over the fire. “Hey, Shimada.” The shorter man looked up from his sharpening stone. “Can I ask how you got that spiders curse now?”

“It is a depressing tale. I’m sure it will only bore you.”

“I feel I haven’t learned shit about you where I’ve worn my story on my sleeve, so to speak.”

“This is also because you have trouble NOT speaking, McCree.”

“You know what I meant!”

The archer wistfully placed his half-sharpened arrow and steel to his side. He put his full attention to McCree, looking at him straight in the eye with the ghostly white in his sockets.“My brother and I were born long ago, near the outskirts of Edo. My father was a successful businessman, his hands in textiles, steel, sake...but more than those. He had secret ledgers for business only the family and his financial circle knew. Hired assassins. Brothels. Slave labor. We lived like the emperor back in those days. We were given everything we could want. We had archery lessons, kendo, piano, English, French...

Before the government even considered the idea, my father set his sights on doing business in Korea. If the man could have wrestled the Queen herself for the land, he would have. We all went on the trip with my father. My brother and I because we were expected to inherit his empire, however, Genji brought _her_ along.”

McCree was on the edge of his rock, completely immersed. “Ámelie was the supposed daughter of a French businessman who exported tea. She was a dancer. They were arranged to marry as part of a business agreement, but their affection seemed real. We couldn't have known she was a _jorogumo_ in disguise as a swan.” Hanzo’s hands trembled where his skin met his wooden legs. He glared into the fire like a man possessed.

“We got in an argument, mostly fueled by my father pressuring us into taking the business more seriously. He wanted me to express the seriousness of it all to Genji, but he knew better. He didn’t want to be a part of our father’s sins. I left the mansion we were staying at in frustration with a bottle of soju and a need to clear my head. And yet…” He audibly repressed the urge to break down, with short heavy breaths, like he was suffocation his albatross. “When I returned hours later, they were all dead. My father, his men...Genji...she killed them all, she even began feasting.

Do you know what it sounds like, when a man is cracked into for his marrow, McCree?”

Unfortunately, he did.

“I fought her and failed at first. She grabbed me by the legs and bit into both. I shot her through the head. I tried to get her poison out of my body, at all costs.” His vacant eyes shifted to his prosthetics. “It spread throughout my body too fast. Instead of being a man with no legs I became a corpse of a fool. My blood runs black and cold. My eyes have glazed over. I look like the dead yet I have outlived almost everyone I ever knew. But, for what I caused, for leaving my brother when he needed me the most, isn't it what I deserve? An existence between life and death, without redemption?”

Pain twisted in McCree’s heart for the other man. He could relate to his regret more than he wanted to admit. “You couldn’t’ve known she’d do that. Hell, if you stayed you’d be good as dead too.”

“Sometimes I think it would have been for the best. And yet sometimes part of me believes our meeting was more than a coincidence.”

“So you figure, helpin’ me find Reyes, maybe it can help you find a better path.”

“I know it can’t change what I have become, but maybe there is part of me that will feel vindicated, McCree.”

The two men sat near the waning fire with the crickets and rustling autumn leaves. “Jesse.” Hanzo, lost in the flames, looked up. “After spillin’ your guts to me just now, you and I should probably be on a real first name basis.”

“Of course, Jesse.” Hanzo combed his hand through his hair, letting Jesse’s name and thoughts in his native tongue silently dance on his lips.  “I suppose you may do the same. I apologize. It has been years since I've spoken for such a long period of time, especially on that subject. I think it would be wise if we got some rest.”

“‘Course, no problem,” McCree said, using his coat to fan the fire away.

He was completely sure Hanzo didn't need sleep either, but want going to fight his companion on needing the silence of his sleep.

* * *

 

Hanzo and McCree continued their journey to Kiyosu Castle with less dread that expected. No, it was considerably _louder_ than the other days McCree noticed. They walked side by side instead of the past two days of him being escorted by the archer, who now was conversing as much as _he_ was, something that was an unattainable feat for most. Divulging his family history made him feel safe around McCree; he ran on about all the changes his country had gone through lately, or the things he could notice from the late night heists he needed to pull in towns for supplies. McCree absorbed every word of it. _Why_? He wasn't sure he fully listened to anyone the way he was mentally digesting every syllable Hanzo spoke. He read his hunter manual halfway before getting bored. Reyes used to pull him by the ears on missions for being inattentive. Had Hanzo even spoken to anyone in decades? Was this the beginning of the levees breaking?

Something in his head felt off-kilter now when he looked at the shorter man. He had lived by the cross(bow) for so long that the danger that radiated from Hanzo should have forced a bolt into his brain. His inhumanity was almost refreshing compared to the demons he’d faced in his past. He was so accustomed to the monsters with smiling faces, denial, or good intentions while bearing their fangs (Sort of like Gabriel.) Hanzo was so accepting of his curse to the point he could stand in front of McCree undaunted for a chance at redemption. There was still a human underneath his carrion. It was almost admirable.

McCree wondered what Hanzo would look like without his chalky skin and deadened eyes. He then wondered if he should find a new profession after this hunt, in fear that maybe he became too well-acquainted with the dead to the point where he thought, _maybe Hanzo is perfect the way he is_.

* * *

 

They arrived in Nagoya in the evening, with fluffy grey storm clouds, darker than the color of Hanzo’s skin, waiting in the sky. McCree found a private inn minutes before the first drops hit the ground. He scoped out the inn’s layout; a courtyard with rooms around the perimeter. He found the back exit to slyly let Hanzo in without any trouble.

“Hope you don’t mind sharin’ a bunk with me for the night. I promise I don’t toss and turn,” McCree said tauntingly while unlatching the side exit. Hanzo rolled his eyes and stepped inside. Their room was frugal and its size reflected that, with only enough room for a medium-sized futon and a paper lantern. One of their sliding doors faced the courtyard but it did little in the rain. Heat rose in McCree’s cheeks. The lack of privacy wasn't good for his conflicting feelings. He balled his heavy coat and tossed it aside, threw the door open and dangled his feet out he door, catching heavy rips on his legs before retreating back indoors.

The storm rattled on with deafening rain. Hanzo insisted they should stay indoors for a chance to be well-prepared and rested, but McCree wasn't ever one for rest. Storms back in America were meant for ambushes and melting witches, so he had to settle for his third favorite rainy activity of day drinking. He ransacked his pack, tossing his bolts and change of clothes haphazardly around their room till he reached the hefty bottle at the bottom. He propped himself against the same wall as Hanzo, who was sharpening more arrows by candlelight.

The demon nodded his head to the bottle inquisitively. “Tequila. Ain’t like any of the liquor you got here, that’s for sure. Made from a prickly plant south of the border and burns like a church fire.”

Hanzo smirks. “I have heard of it, but was never able to try it.”

“Y’know, just because you can’t eat doesn’t mean you can’t try a bit, right?”

“I appreciate the offer, but it will not have a good effect on me.”

McCree waved the bottle towards him. “Won’t hurt to try. Always helps to try to drown your sorrows.”

Hanzo hesitated before narrowing his eyes and grabbing the bottle. McCree smiled the way any proud enabler does. “You greatly underestimate my misery, cowboy.” He took a large swig from the tequila with ease and handed the bottle back before a coughing fit. “This might be the warmest I have felt in years.”

“See? Ain't anything more demonic than the devil's brew itself!” He guzzled about three shots worth as if it was water.

They took turns sipping tequila and swapping stories about their homelands. McCree slurred through a tale about one of his first hunting missions with Gabriel for La Llarona; he didn’t know she was a spirit so he dove into a river to tackle but went straight through her. Hanzo reminisced about happier times with his brother with trips to the ocean and mischievously throwing Genji’s clothes in the ocean when he lost to him in a swimming race. He claimed it was “an unfortunate gust of wind.” McCree wistfully tried to remember the last time he was able to get his hands on a slice of lane cake, while Hanzo tried to remember what food tasted like at all. He thought back to when his father uses to smuggle meat home and decides beef and daifuku are what he misses the most.

He became even more aware of the growing contact between the two of them, as Hanzo’s head was leaning on his shoulder. It was as if the agave drowned his thoughts like the sweetest syrup on earth. The small, not-intoxicated-enough area of his brain was urging him to slide away from the _literal_ devil talking in his ear but he couldn’t bring himself to move. But _god damn it,_ he looked into McCree eyes and he looked like the most beautiful statue carved out of limestone. This rare moment with a genuine smile on his face, how could he not believe that he was the most human companion he's had in years as well.

How was he not supposed to tilt his head ever so slightly down to kiss him, quicker than a hummingbird’s heartbeat. He felt the chill of the other man’s skin but his whole being was shivering from the thrill of it, the pure need that clouded his mind, the first time he was so proactive for physicality in _years._

Yet he pulled away opened his eyes again to see Hanzo bewildered, slack-jawed, and the worst of all, disgusted.

He snapped out of his haze and felt the heartbreaking embarrassment crawl up his esophagus and dry out his throat. McCree wanted to leave the squeezed inn room and drown in the rain. He could run to the castle himself and ask Reyes to tear him apart thereupon, to slash the gruff skin of his neck and drain him completely, so he could focus on something besides the fact he was a fool so repulsive even the dead didn't want him.

They might both be lonely and starved for affection, but that doesn't mean Hanzo wanted any from _him_.

“Uh,” was the only word he could muster as McCree quickly pulled himself up, feeling uncomfortable sober, and staggered to the futon. Hanzo didn’t try to stop him. He closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep, stuck in a time loop of his mistakes.

* * *

 

McCree woke from a fitful slumber, half from his own thoughts and the other from creaking floorboards under the tatami mats. He saw Hanzo’s silhouette hunched over, expelling the tequila from before. A puddle of black sludge was now spreading through their corner of the courtyard that smelled like tar and rotten agave. Hanzo turned before he could even reach out a helping hand, wiping his mouth. His scowl was as cold as his skin.

“Although I can consume food and alcohol, it is best that I don't. It is not made for me, anymore.”

“Then why didn't you just tell me?”

“Because unfortunately, Jesse McCree, you make me forget that I am no longer truly alive.”

So their feelings were one in the same; that curt drunken kiss wasn’t just from imaginary tension between them. Yet McCree could only feel scorn for the other man’s passive-aggression.

“Now hold on, that’s bullshit, don’t you pin that on me.”

“Jesse, please,”

“Don’t you ‘Jesse please’ me damn it!” His fists were balled in frustration. “I’m tryin’ my damnedest to help you. I reckon I know you better than anyone else around so don’t push me away? What are you needin’? What can I do?”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Now wait just a, that isn’t what I meant!”

“No, you listen to me!” Hanzo lashed out with a wild expression while clutching his chest, feeling hellish regurgitation brewing in him again. “You, stupid, arrogant yankee! You fool who feels like he has to save everything around him! You think you can just fix me by looking at me the way you look at frilly prostitutes at saloons back home? You think I am stupid? I have been on this earth longer than you, and have been loathing myself long enough that your little attempt can’t turn that around.”

Something in McCree snapped, one that left him with a certain clarity that felt so unfamiliar. He wasn’t a stranger to losing his temper and doing rash things (and _god_ , the things he wanted to _do_ to this powerful, furious Hanzo) but none of those moments left him with a purpose.

He walked calmly up to Hanzo, who looked unnerved by McCree’s lack of a reaction. Quicker than his draw of a weapon he pinned the shorter man’s wrists to the screen behind them with both of his hands, on each side of his head. His grip was unyielding no matter how much Hanzo cursed and struggled.

“Let go of my wrists, now."

“I’m not pityin’ you, darlin’.”

McCree planned the kiss to be quick, quick enough for Hanzo to not tear his lips off. He couldn’t help but linger. Hanzo was cold enough to be a cadaver and tasted like gasoline and spoiling fruit but he couldn’t be asked to care. The archer’s fists unfurled as he surrendered to the kiss and struggled to meet his hands and wave their calloused fingers together.

“Do you believe me now?”

“You stupid, stupid yankee,” Hanzo said in pleading breaths, not wanting to pull away from their kiss too long. “It has been very, lonely.”

“Y’don’t gotta justify it to me, Hanzo” he said with a purr, leaning in for another kiss. Hanzo shifted and bit his lower lip, almost drawing blood with his newfound hunger for human contact. He unpinned his right wrist from the paper wall and snaked a hand through the front of his belt, to feel the ridges in his cool skin. Hanzo yelped in surprise as McCree traced up and down his ribcage, lingering near his chest and waistline the longest. His chest rose and fell with each little circle the hunter traces into his skin, almost entranced by the motions. He wriggled one hand free from their embrace and grabbed a handful of McCree’s thick chestnut hair. “Why don’t we get ourselves a little more comfortable?”

McCree walked with purpose to their futon while fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. He sat down, finally freeing the last button, thinking he had a few more seconds to tear it off until Hanzo pounced onto his lap, pulling him up by the collar into another rough kiss. Before his eyes reminded him of a spectral white, but with this newfound hunger for every part of McCree’s being, it felt like heavenly light as he kept his gaze on him.

“Colder than ice but the damn prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, aren't you?”

“Further flattery will get you nowhere.”

McCree traced the thick outline in his pants, eliciting a sharp gasp from Hanzo, reminding him who was leading this dance. The archer’s nails dug into his back like hawk talons. He felt the soft scruff of his beard brush his skin, as Hanzo buried his forehead into the crook of his neck, deeper with every light stroke. He'd been cruel enough, and took his full erection from his waistband, lightly brushing his fingers around Hanzo’s shaft, through his thick patch of hair, on the smooth skin of his inner thigh. McCree grabbed his cock with a steadfast grip and began stroking, yielding and thrusting to every pleading noise and shudder of pleasure from the man on top of him. Hanzo repeated his name like a broken phonograph, like he needed it burned into his memory.

He unbuckled his belt and shimmied his own slacks off to pull his aching erection free. Hanzo “I got us both, don’t need you freezin’ it off now.” That he did, as he surprised himself by wrapping his flesh-and-blood hand around both of them. It was clumsy at first, the positioning, the friction, keeping himself from getting lost in Hanzo’s wanton expression, but he built up a steady rhythm between them. With each pump he flexed his fingers back and forth, giving Hanzo ripples of pleasure down the side of his shaft, while used his thumb to brush his tip. Hanzo bucked into every stroke, finding it hard to articulate anything other than short Japanese words and his name. To have such a conventional man unwound in his hands begging to be ravaged by him, McCree burned with a building electricity inside. Hanzo’s expression dripped with sex with hooded eyes and mouth agape. He looked back down at their erections in his hand, his calloused hand moving up and down with resolve. He was caught off-guard by the small black bead at the tip of Hanzo’s head, visibly so, as Hanzo used one hand to move his gaze back up.

“Please, do not look,” he asked uneasily of McCree. “I am embarrassing enough.” It hadn’t dawned on him that if he bled black and hurled black, _everything_ in his body was black. But it didn’t faze him and planted a greedy kiss on his neck. He wasn’t going to strip Hanzo of this one moment of humanity.

Looking Hanzo dead in the eyes with passion he said “There ain’t an embarrassin’ thing ‘bout you, sugar,” in his husky voice. He sped up the pace of his tugging and Hanzo came undone in his lap, quivering, praying for him to never stop. McCree used his metal arm to pull his neck closer and taste his skin with sharp nibbles all the way up to his ears. He teased Hanzo’s earlobe and he tensed up, his back arched, he let out sound that seemed so much smaller and needier than he was. McCree, too pleased with himself for finding such a sensitive area, continued to tease him with constant bites.

“Jesse, _please_ ” Hanzo begs. He was so disheveled, so human in this moment, yet restrained as he went back to hiding his face in McCree’s neck while he moaned and spattered thick black drops across his stomach. It set off the same orgasmic wave in McCree like a string of dynamite as he felt himself release as well.

They sat still with heavy breaths and clammy skin, McCree’s forehead leaning on the tattoo on Hanzo’s chest. He was spent, with only enough effort to hold the demon's hand, cold but a perfect fit between his like the grip of his crossbow. He needed this. _They_ needed this.

With few belongings he reached for his coat to wipe the sticky mess off their chests. In hindsight it wasn’t his best idea, and Hanzo’s appalled look said the same. “Hey, it’s black, my coat’s black, ain’t worth worrying about.” He threw his coat to the side and looked back up at Hanzo with post-coital bliss. “Good for you, hon?”

“You...worry me sometimes” he replied and couldn’t help but smile at McCree. He rolled off McCree’s lap and laid on the futon, spread out and tousled. McCree fell backwards, legs still crossed, and stared at the perfect little slats of wood in the ceiling in a daze. Hanzo gingerly scratched his knee and hummed an unfamiliar tune.

“Come with me back to America."

Hanzo propped himself up by his elbows. “What are you on about?”

“I got a few doctors, priests, alchemists up my sleeves. Maybe someone can help get that poison outta you.”

He scoffs. “Aren’t you the one who just called me beautiful?”

“Yeah well, ain’t no harm in polishin’ gold to make diamond, right? I’m serious. We get some real blood in your veins, new legs, and you’ll be back to eating steak and rice cakes in no time!”

“Wait, you are being serious, aren't you?” Hanzo looked at him and McCree felt his entire head turn red. It was an odd gesture after only knowing each other for three days, two spent at each other's throats and one spent entangled. But he was being genuine. “It is a tempting offer, but one that requires more than a day of thought.”

The hunter’s mouth felt dry and needing. “I’m gonna head out for a smoke. Be back soon.” McCree rolled the archer’s face over for one last kiss before he stood. He couldn’t shake the fluttery feeling in his chest, and hoped he never had to. He buttoned his shirt back up and readjusted himself back into his slacks before taking his hat and smokes outside.

He found a dry spot in the courtyard, under a wisteria tree, and lit a cigarillo. “‘The hell am I doing,” he questioned under his breath. Coupling with a demon wasn’t part of his plans and yet he was the happiest he’d been in years. The thrill of the hunt could only keep his spirits up so much, whether it was his normal assignments or the “sabbatical” he’d taken to track down Reyes. He’d been from Mexico to Manhattan, to Romania, England, all on some wild goose chase for a man that he would’ve followed to Hell and back. He had plenty of guides and fellow members of OMEN but no one had affected him the way Hanzo Shimada had. He’s the first person in ages he could simply exist with. He regretted the invitation to America, only a little. Three days weren’t enough to tell if everything would collapse right in front of him. He felt like a man with a noose around his neck waiting for the tree to grow.

McCree took another drag. The tobacco that reminded him of home felt stale from months of travel.

Something else felt very wrong. McCree felt a sensation throughout his entire being like venom in his blood and toxic gas in his lungs. It felt like Hell looked, and he had only ever felt it from the presence of one man.

He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. On his knees, he succumbed to the numbness, and watched his hat glide to the damp grass before his vision faded to black.

* * *

 

McCree woke upright, constricted, and oddly comfortable.

Still with the dull throbbing in his head and blurry vision, he tried to lift himself up, but was tied by the chest, arms and legs. “Lassoed like a damn steer,” he muttered. He wasn’t hurt aside from a minor concussion, and the loss of circulation in his wrist. He lashed against his bonds and was very confused by how cushioned the chair was, and how bizarrely Western it felt to not be tied to a pillar or a floor cushion.

His vision came back into focus, and the chair he was tied to was part of a pair.

In the meticulously carved, royal purple upholstered chair was a darkly-cloaked figure resting his tilted head in his right hand, arm leaning on the arm of the chair like a spiritless king. McCree would have thought the Samhain decorative jack o’lantern on the man’s head was odd, but Gabriel Reyes was always a man with a sense of humor. There was no one else it could possibly be. Golden, floral screens behind him were illuminated by moonlight. He was the guest of honor in Kiyosu Castle tonight, it seemed.

“They’re soft, right?” Reyes asked in a sickeningly sentimental way, as if he wasn’t rotting and renewing minute by minute. “These chairs were a gift from missionaries who wanted to build the first church here. A church was okay, to the warlord, but as soon as one of the missionaries wanted to start a chapter of OMEN, he restricted their communications to Europe. Smart man, huh?”

“God damn it, Reyes, what th’ hell are you doing? Just untie me!”

He huffed. “I thought you’d be a little more grateful to see I slowed down for you.”

“Reyes, for Chrissake, jus’ don’t make this harder than it needs t’be.”

“Jesse, now that we’re finally face to face, have you ever stopped to think about whether OMEN was really doing its job?”

“Damn it Reyes, don’t-”

“Because I did. I thought about it for weeks after our mission in Manhattan, where I got bit in the _fucking_ neck, and you got your _fucking_ arm torn off because of it.”

He recalled Hell’s Kitchen, the blood that painted the streets discounted as gang violence but was something much more sinister, the mephitic piles of bodies that filled the cellar. Dozens of young men were recruited for a new faction in organized crime, but instead they were met with famished vampires. McCree went in undercover, as a young man from a southwestern train robbing gang looking for new opportunities (which at one point was true) but went out without his left arm, and without his mentor.

He blamed himself every damned day for not being fast enough, not being able to take care of himself, and not doing enough to keep Reyes in the light.

“Don’t put that on yourself, I was still green behin’ the ears then.”

  
“You were. And in a way so was I. Because you know what? We can go in, guns blazing, fight them _mano a mano_ and we will always be outnumbered in the end. Killing one monster won’t protect humanity, it will just bring hundreds more into the light.”

McCree shook his head in disbelief. What was left of the man in front of him was spouting the same logic monsters he'd killed had.

“Are you sayin’ you gave up? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em? You’re smarter than feedin’ into that bullshit, Gabe!”

“Take Japan for example. It’s just so _easy_ to get what you want from people here, Jesse! They still have reverence and fear of the gods, instead of the ungrateful ingrates who hire us every blue moon for a stray _chupacabra_. You should have stopped trying to find me after you went back to New York. I can sit back quietly now and just play god.”

“Go to hell.”

“Even you’ve had a change of heart with demons, _mijo_. I found you smelling like sex and cheap tobacco, and you bet that stupid fucking hat of yours I know exactly why. You’re walking with an urban legend in these parts, you know. Not many live through a spider woman. Was he a good fuck, Jesse?”

“ _Go to hell._ ”

“I gave you a chance to be reborn after finding your scrawny bandit ass. I treated you like my own son. I was one of the best things to ever happen to you, and you’ve even said that yourself.”

“Emphasis on the ‘was’ part of that”

“And I am still the same Gabriel Reyes who found you,” he said as he got up from his throne and clasped McCree’s face between one hand, “and I will be the Gabriel Reyes that ends you if that’s what has to happen.

Something brings Reyes out of his grandstanding moment and he turns his head to a window, a paneless opening at the top of the throne room they were in. “You feel that?” he asked. McCree couldn’t with the presence his former master carried. “Your lover is near. Definitely past the walls. Perhaps even in the castle.”

McCree didn’t bother correcting Reyes. He was...surprised, more than anything. He half expected to die within the next fifteen minutes, with his belongings and the rest of his tequila halfway back to Kyoto. Maybe that brief, impulsive moment between them really meant something. That wasn’t the point. He was seconds away from getting drained like a pig at a butcher.

With a sudden wisp of wind, the constricting feeling in his chest was suddenly gone. Both men were startled and looked to McCree’s right to see one wobbling arrow piercing the wall. Another quick _ka-thunk_ and an arrow appeared in the armchair and McCree unceremoniously squawked in surprise. It was a shot with restraint, aimed straight at the knot in the rope around his left wrist. Reyes might have had his face hidden but he knew underneath he was irritated by the archer’s sudden entrance. He needed a plan, the kind of plan that needed only one arm, no weapon, and as much adrenaline as possible.

Without a second thought he put his weight on his feet and swung his right arm, still tied to the chair. It hit Reyes over the head with a loud crack, breaking his silly looking mask and toppling both men to the ground. The wood underneath his wrist broke and McCree was free but badly injured, his wrist internally in pieces. He picked himself up and ran as fast as he could to where the arrows came from, down a side corridor lined with more opulent screens. While running a hand grabbed him by the leg of his slacks and almost tripped him. He turned to see Hanzo kneeling, his walking altar, his lovely demon, with vicious concentration on Reyes who was recuperating and pulling pumpkin pieces from his neck. McCree slid down to his level and had to resist the urge to hug the man.

“Oh sweetheart, you got here just in time!”

“Is this really the time to be testing out new terms of endearment?” Hanzo asked wryly as he fired more arrows in Reyes’ direction. “What is that man? He cannot be a simple demon.”  

“Yeah well, he ain’t,” McCree replied while taking inventory of what Hanzo brought inside: his own weapon and arrows, his crossbow and one bundle of bolts, but not the correct ones. “The sonuvabitch got bit by a vampire during a mission on the east coast. He can’t be hurt with normal weapons. Hey, you didn't happen to bring my pack, did you?”

“I left it at the front door. I figured you needed only the essentials.”

If they were back at the inn, still half naked and intertwined in each other, he’d ask where his cigarillos were. “I need my special wooden bolts. We’re gonna have get to the entrance.”

“I can lead us, hurry.”

Hanzo pulled them both up and led McCree by the sleeve of his shirt.They turned corner after corner to lose the bloodsucker, through lavish rooms with treasure from a forgotten rule, left to rot. They passed books in an untouched library, dead bonsai, armor from forgotten samurai, a tea ceremony left for ants and worms. McCree still felt Reyes gaining a lead on them. He knew the man could walk through shadows at a quicker pace but if he turned to find him, he knew he would freeze in place.

He heard the harsh footsteps behind him of the fallen hunter. They had to be close. He had to turn, just to see if underneath his mask and haunting guises it was really the Gabriel Reyes who turned his life around.

Christ, that face.

Reyes was falling apart. His nose and right lower jaw was nonexistent, showing only nasal bone and half a row of teeth in a wilted smile. The defined features he had while human were softened, his facial hair and eyebrows were patchy and greying. His skin looked oxidized and translucent with veins and lacerations, like he was being eaten away. It was such a stark contrast to someone like Hanzo who was a healthier death.

Something didn’t add up.  

He faced forward again, eyes full of moonlight like his beloved’s as they reached the entrance and McCree saw his backpack cast aside. He sped up, he wasn’t sure why, he had a feeling what was happening, and slid on his knees to his bag. Inside the frontmost pocket were five bolts only made of wood with a special blessing. The agent who entrusted them to McCree said they were carved from a root of Yggdrasil itself, which sounded like bullshit, but he didn’t need them to be godly. Just worthy of killing the closest thing to a god he met.

McCree loaded his crossbow steadily, without the clumsiness of their ambush on the bandit camp. He pointed it at his mentor, who moved towards them at the same determined speed, and fired, hitting him right where his kidneys were rotting in his ribcage. Reyes collapsed to his knees, clutching his side like it was the first time he’d felt pain in years. Hanzo looked astonished.

“You missed?”

“No. I didn’t.” McCree stomped over to him and pulled him up by the collar of his cape to meet his glazed-over eyes. He wanted to pull him by the scalp, to really make it hurt, but he had a hunch he’d tear it off. Reyes looked at him with the same sly smile he used to wear when they played card games in the cargo cars on the railroad, when he used to threaten to throw his hat off the train if he won. He smiled like there was never a Manhattan. It infuriated McCree to his core. Hanzo kept his bowstring taut in case. “What the hell is wrong with you! Why did you tell me all that horseshit back in the castle? Is this a test? Is this funny to you?”

“What ever do you mean, _mijo_?” Reyes said mockingly.

“Your face.” McCree under all that decomposing seemed almost impressed. “You ain’t feedin’. You’re half in the grave already. Why keep this chase on as long as you have?”

Reyes slowly clapped. McCree wasn’t in the mood. “Well, I tried.”

“You tried what, exactly?”

“I tried being the villain.” He paused, watching McCree’s eyes twitch and the urge to reload his crossbow rising. “There was nothing else I could do, after I was attacked in Hell’s Kitchen. Everyone thought I died that day in Manhattan, and if I came back like this? I would have been dead before I could finish asking to be let inside. I had nowhere to go.

"I tried to get used to surviving. The missing people in Mexico City. The massacre in Sierra Leone." McCree remembered each photo he received as a piece of his puzzle, all the blood coating the walls and the pure carnage in each city Reyes graced with his presence. "You killed dozens while out on the field with me, but I’ve killed tenfold by now just to stay alive. I couldn’t do it anymore. What a fucking boy scout I turned out to be, right? The only one who I attempted to contact was Doctor Ziegler. You know, the reason you went to that shithole outpost in Romania. She couldn’t fix me. Some _wunderkid_ she turned out to be, calling _you_ up after leaving me empty-handed.”

McCree noticed Hanzo lowering his weapon. He wasn’t prepared for an answer, let alone an answer like this.

“I wanted to hate you and everyone else for turning your backs on me so quickly, but I can’t. You’ve become a much better man than you used to be, Jesse. I wasn’t lying about OMEN being flawed. Most of the ingrates in it are naive starry-eyed jackasses who have the money to make it it a hobby. But us? We’ve seen the real shit Jesse. We saw what the everyday people have to face, no princesses, no castle, no fame. Maybe you can change things for the better.”

The corners of McCree’s eyes stung. “How goddamned dare you.”

“Finish it, Jesse. At least let me die an honored death. Let’s make it fitting for our trip to Japan. Just,” Reyes looked over McCree’s shoulder at Hanzo, whose bow was already back in its sheath. It was as if without ever speaking, they had such a good understanding. They knew they shared each other's plight and shared concern for the hunter. _This is not my fight, but I know what you are fighting for_ , he pictured Hanzo saying in commiseration. _He’s your problem now_ , he pictured Reyes thinking. “Just don’t lose sight of what makes really makes a monster, Jesse.”

McCree was sobbing thick ugly tears at this point, holding a wooden bolt so firmly in his hand he swore he could splinter it. Almost a year of his life was spent on the road for this moment, but he knew it could have been a quicker hunt. He didn’t have to follow covered-up trails or dawdle in cities with fruitless information. He dreaded this moment since the moment his arm was torn off his torso, and even with the bolt finally clicked into place in quaking hands he wanted to take Hanzo’s hand and run away.

“Hey, come on, before the sun rises or it’s going to get disgusting, _puto_ ,” Reyes jested with the same slick expression, accepting of his fate. McCree laughed, because if you’re going to a funeral you might as well remember the good times, he thought. He aimed the crossbow inches away from what was left of Reyes’ heart. “ _Vaya con dios,_ Jesse.”

There was no noise save for the crack of the bolt, his weapon falling to the ground, and a few sparrows in the early dawn. Hanzo placed his hand onto McCree’s shoulder and the hunter crumbled to pieces as the new day fell upon them.

* * *

 

McCree broke the handle on the office door again. Who forgets to pack keys, but remembers to pack twelve too many rounds of incendiary crossbow bolts? He used his left leg to shift a few papers and an inkwell off the edge of his desk, and slams a heavy bleeding bundle down. Once every blue moon, for the stray _chupacabra_ , indeed, he thought while looking at the carcass.

“You know, Jesse, you don’t live alone anymore. You could try knocking instead of breaking in."

Hanzo leaned against the archway between the Santa Fe OMEN Branch office and the staircase that led to their small home above. McCree couldn't help but forget about the ink puddle on the ground at the sight of his archer. It’s been months back on American soil, and almost an equal amount of time with his darling archer back to his human form. After treatment with some of the Order’s best he was completely recovered, with a fair complexion and eyes as dark as walnut trees. McCree considered himself the luckiest man in the west for each day he could slay at night and see the guy of his dreams all day.

McCree then noticed Hanzo wasn't woken up by his breaking and entering but fully dressed in a crisp white shirt and matching cobalt vest and slacks. “And what're you all dressed up for? Can't have you lookin’ so damn handsome without me,” he asked with a tempting rumble, ambling in front of Hanzo. He used his real hand, without small splatters of _chupacabra_ blood, to play with the scruff of his lover’s beard and kissed him adoringly.

“The ink, Jesse.”

“Ah,hell,” he groaned. McCree stripped his coat off and threw it on the ground, stomping on it like a wildfire was underneath. He turned, able to feel the disgust from Hanzo’s face. “Hey, it’s black, my coat’s black, we’re good as gold for now!”

“It’s true, you’ve had worse on your coat.”

“Hey!”

Hanzo chuckled. “Doctor Ziegler will be in the states again, so I am in need of a follow up.” The archer motioned for him to follow him up the stairs, and McCree strung along behind him, smelling black coffee and the earthiness of Hanzo’s favorite tea leaves at the top. Hanzo placed a tin cup in his hand and walked back over to their kitchenette with quiet steps on his new legs.

“By the way,” Hanzo said after a sip of _genmaicha_ as he focused on the sun peering over the mountains. “When were you going to tell me about San Francisco?”

“It, uh, shit. Guess it's harder to keep secrets when you're part of the same club, huh?” He sharply exhaled and reeled at how idiotic it was to leave that transfer paperwork on his desk when he wasn’t working alone anymore. “Was supposed to be a surprise. Surprise?”

“I don't know, how will they feel about their city being protected by a cowboy?”

“Hey! You sayin’ I'm not charming? ‘Sides,” McCree wrapped his metal arm around the smaller man from behind, clasping at his waist. Hanzo smelled like incense, red berries and McCree’s aftershave. He sipped his coffee; it tasted so different when he wasn’t the one making it, as if there was delicacy and care put into it. “It was so you could feel more comfortable. They got a lot of Japanese folks there, and a helluva lot more demons mixed in. They got all the foods you miss that you won’t let me pronounce too.”

“Who says I don't feel comfortable here, _pendejo_?”

McCree choked on his coffee. “Well, you done settled it. Now we gotta move so you don't get too Mexicanized.”

“ _Te amo._ Is that better?”

McCree smiled and kissed the top of Hanzo's head, his walking prayer, his lovely former demon. “ _Te amo_ to you too, darlin’.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated (or right on time, depending on your coast) Halloween! I just adore the skins/comic costumes for these two and I've been very into the pairing lately that I had to pump out a fic for this holiday. I wanted it to be more on time but I had a bad burn accident at work so my hands weren't exactly up for typing ._."
> 
> I appreciate all comments! I will try to reply to them all as well :) 
> 
> I also want to gauge some interest for other ideas for McHanzo fic I've had lately, in particular a Westworld-ish AU. Who WOULDN'T love a theme park full of Omincs you can gunsling with? Or bone? You know what, maybe don't answer that :P Thank you again for reading!


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